


Trials and Tribulations

by Daegaer



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Demons, Gen, London, The Arrangement (Good Omens), daily life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-22
Updated: 2006-04-22
Packaged: 2020-06-24 23:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19733860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: Aziraphale has an unfortunate day.





	Trials and Tribulations

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Горести и испытания](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23185423) by [rat_not_cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rat_not_cat/pseuds/rat_not_cat)



Aziraphale was having a lovely day.

He'd had a very nice stroll in the dawn, admiring the way that the growing light made London seem a magical place. Not that he approved of people getting involved in magic, of course – although anything that got children reading was fine by him. He had been immensely pleased to see flocks of pigeons swooping their way round the skies. Dear things, he didn't know why people objected to them. He'd gently meandered back to the shop and had his first cup of tea of the day.

After that, things went a bit unfortunate.

He suddenly realised that the shops were opening, regretfully turned off Radio Three and tripped cheerfully down to the patisserie to buy some of their lovely croissants and pain au chocolat. They didn't have any left.

"But you've only been open a few minutes!" he wailed.

"Sorry," the assistant shrugged, "a man bought up our entire stock as soon as we opened the door."

"He wasn't about my height, with black hair and sunglasses, was he?" Aziraphale said suspiciously.

The assistant shook her head. Aziraphale trailed off, telling himself that not every vexing occurrence could be immediately traced back to Crowley. He dragged himself down to the convenience store, and bought some of their croissants instead. They came ready packaged in a crinkly plastic bag. When he took them out they themselves were rather crinkly, were very dry and made him feel like he was eating shredded wood.

After breakfast, Aziraphale headed out for an honest day's do-gooding. It saved him from opening the shop. He was rather pleased – it had been a full nine working days since anyone had got through the doors with the intent of buying a book. Let them all go to Waterstones, he prayed.

He was very cheered in the afternoon to find someone who returned his smile. He decided to give the friendly fellow a nice blessing for his pleasant attitude. Then the fellow spoke.

"Do you have time for a word?"

"Well, yes, a quick one," Aziraphale said, thinking longingly of a cup of tea and a nice sit down.

"Do you think there's any purpose to life?" the man asked.

"Oh yes," Aziraphale said vaguely, "most definitely."

"And what would you say that is, exactly?"

"Well, we've all got our jobs to do," Aziraphale said, his mind now firmly consumed with the idea of tea.

"But what about a deeper purpose? Do you think there's anything more to life?"

Aziraphale dragged his mind away from the possibility of tea and looked at his conversation partner in dismay. He took in the ostentatiously unassuming Open University style of dressing. He bit his lip as he saw the plastic bag of badly bound New Testaments and Psalms sneakily propped against the side of a building. Oh no. He seemed to have wandered into the clutches of an evangelist.

"I . . . suppose," he said grudgingly.

His tormenter smiled even more cheerfully.

"Do you believe in God?" he said.

Aziraphale was glad for a question that seemed to allow an escape route.

"Good gracious, yes," he said. "No doubt whatsoever. Now, if you'll excuse me –"

The evangelist held up a hand.

"But how do you _know_?" he asked.

Blast. Aziraphale racked his brain to try and remember a foolproof way of getting out of this sort of thing without causing embarrassment or undue pain to either of them. All that came to mind was a sharp mental image of what Crowley's likely reaction to this would be. A desperate desire to laugh started to well up.

"I – um, just know," he said. "I have, er, let's see, a deep inward conviction that God exists. I also believe in Heaven, Hell, angels and demons," he said helpfully.

"Oh," the evangelist said, clearly not expecting such co-operation. "But do you have a personal relationship with God?"

"I tend to go through the chain of command," Aziraphale said primly.

"Of course – so would you say you've accepted Jesus, then?"

Aziraphale closed his eyes. He hated this sort of conversation. He felt all itchy and worried if he actively lied about these things.

"Depending on one's interpretation of that question, yes," he said. "However, probably not in the way you mean it."

He sneaked a look at the man and could see he wouldn't be getting out of this any time soon. It was precisely then that he saw a streak of black fly unnoticed down the road, and saw Crowley give him a cheery wave while narrowly avoiding some elderly pedestrians. Blast it. Why should he be stuck here talking to fundamentalists when some people got to indulge their hobbies?

"I'm not fallen, you see," he said testily as the man opened his mouth again. "I am in fact a predater of your religions, and I don't follow any of them. I know you try, dear boy, but really accosting people in the street? Most undignified. It's the kind of thing that gives the rest of us a bad name. Now, _if_ you'll excuse me?"

"We have all fallen short!" the man called after him.

"Speak," Aziraphale muttered, "for yourself."

* * *

"Who was your friend, earlier?" Crowley said, pouring them both a glass of a _very_ nice vintage that was a little astonished to find itself coming out of a bottle of 1.99 own-brand red from Tesco. "He looked very worthy - one is yours is he?"

"Yes," Aziraphale moaned. "Why me, Lord?" He looked guiltily upwards. So did Crowley.

"So," Crowley snickered, when they were both sure there'd be no answer. "Did he save you, then?"

Aziraphale gave him the stoniest stare he could be bothered finding the energy for, then decided he'd rather just drink. "I'm sure they do some good, these people," he said listlessly. "They certainly save some folk who'd otherwise wander into your clutches."

"Wouldn't want them anyway," Crowley said dismissively. "Give them boils, that's my advice."

"Oh, Heavens," Aziraphale said. "I couldn't possibly do something like that. I mean, they're my people as you so kindly pointed out." He sighed wistfully down into his glass. "No," he repeated. " _I_ couldn't possibly do something like that."

"Consider him unkissable," Crowley said genially with a wave of his hand. "More wine?" he asked, holding out the bottle.

"Thank you, dear boy," Aziraphale said, accepting both the refill and the favour.

The setting sun made London seem a soft and golden place, and the flocks of pigeons wearily finding places to roost were picturesque and far too tired to spatter the scene below. People smiled at each other in the street and Waterstones had massive posters up to advertise its latest 3-for-2 offer that would, Aziraphale willing, tempt readers away from second-hand bookshops.

It really was a rather pleasant evening.


End file.
